For my favourite pathologist
by scribblingnellie
Summary: They've fallen into a familiar and happy routine, the Pathologist and the Detective Inspector. Greg would bring her tea, Molly would be there to listen. So had last night been a date? Molly's pondering on her friendship with Greg and finding her thoughts running in a possible new direction. A one-off drabble about my two favourite Sherlock characters.


"Huh… who.. what.."

Molly opened her eyes reluctantly at the sound of her phone. A text? Who texts people at this time of the morning. Grabbing at it from her bedside table, Molly squinted at the screen. And then smiled.

'Good morning. Thank you for last night, G'

Well, ok, that particular someone she didn't mind waking her up with a text.

'You're welcome. And thank you. M'

Plonking her legs over the side, she shuffled her feet around the floor by her bed, searching for her slippers. Finding them, Molly hauled herself off the bed, pulling on her dressing gown.

'Can we have dinner again? I rather liked having dinner with you. G'

Molly remembered the feel of his hand on the small of her back as they'd left the restaurant. And then his arm moving round her shoulders as she'd shivered in the cool February evening, pulling her into his side. She'd been very happy to stay there, his touch sending little sparks through her. Molly had rather liked having dinner with Greg too.

'That would be nice. M'

Wandering into her kitchen, she switched the kettle on, ignoring the pile of dirty mugs in the sink. She'd wash them later, probably. As she picked up her work bag, rummaging for the unfinished report she'd neglected yesterday to have dinner with the handsome Detective Inspector, her phone beeped again.

'I'm heading over to Barts later. Need the Southwark bodies report. G'

Ah, the report she had in her hand.

'Should be ready after lunch for you. M'

'Great. I'll bring tea. G'

Molly smiled. They'd fallen into a familiar routine over the past few months. Brief chats over a corpse turned into longer, proper conversations sat in her office with tea, case reports opened and forgotten on the desk. Greg had started bringing her tea whenever he came to Barts, to her morgue, to see her.

'Thank you. You don't need to bring me tea. M'

'Yes I do. You forget to make it yourself when you get busy. G'

True enough.

'Then thank you for looking after me. M'

'Anytime. Now, about dinner. Is it a date? G'

A date? Molly stopped scrabbling in the cupboard for a clean mug. Had last night been a date? The dinner invitation had sort of come out of the blue. Molly mentioned she loved Hungarian food - a summer spent in Budapest as a student - and Greg said he knew of a great little Hungarian restaurant near him. Molly didn't think that last night had technically been a date. But then just because he hadn't kissed her goodnight didn't mean it wasn't.

'Sure. I'm off on Friday. M'

'Great. You choose a place. Pick you up at 7? G'

Something caught her eye as she went to type out a reply. A small blue box, sitting on the bench, tied with a light blue ribbon. A present? Had Greg left her a present last night? Opening the small folded tag on top, Molly's heart turned over a little…

_For my favourite pathologist x_

'Greg, there's a blue wrapped box on my kitchen bench. You shouldn't have. M'

'Yes I should. Have you opened it? G'

'Just about to. M'

Pulling at the ribbon, Molly took the lid off the box, folded back the tissue paper. Inside was nestled a beautiful blue leather notebook. She turned it over in her hands, feeling its smoothness. Greg had given her a gift; the thought made Molly a little weak at the knees.

'It's beautiful, thank you. M'

'Open it. Look inside. G'

There, on the first page, written in his gently messy hand was a message that touched her.

_Thank you Molly for being there and for being wonderful. Greg x_

'I love it. Thank you. M'

She meant it. It was a lovely, generous thing to do.

'Anytime, Molly. You've been there for me. It's the least I could do. G'

Molly stared at his text; it had meant that much to him, talking with her. She thought of the nights when he'd turn up at the morgue, not needing to see a body or pick up a report, but just finding himself there. Greg had told her that the first time he'd done it, after a particularly tough shift, he hadn't actually realised he was headed to Barts until he'd arrived, but he'd known it was where he needed to be.

And at those times they'd talk through the early hours, while Molly worked, when the morgue was quiet, when it was often just the two of them. Talking about his divorce, the inquiry after Sherlock's death, their families, childhoods, university, first loves.

''Greg, I'm glad I was there. M'

The kettle had finished boiling, but Molly had forgotten about making herself a mug of tea. She was remembering the handsome, caring, intelligent policeman smiling at her over the table, his eyes bright and happy by the candlelight.

'So am I. See you later, Molly. I'll bring tea. G'

The thought of seeing Greg, of sitting and talking with him later that day made her smile.

'Yes please. M '

And if she was honest with herself, Molly knew the thought of seeing him that day also made her heart flip over just a little. Like it had last night when he'd touched her, when he had taken her hand as they got out of his car and crossed the road to her flat. Was she falling for him?

"I think I might be," she said out loud, running her fingers over his handwritten message.


End file.
